


Dear Fenris

by Disenchantress



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Here Lies the Abyss, Letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 21:43:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5065396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Disenchantress/pseuds/Disenchantress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris receives Varric's letter after Here Lies the Abyss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Fenris

**Author's Note:**

> I am so, so sorry for this. I saw this post on tumblr and I couldn't stop writing.
> 
> http://justjasper.tumblr.com/post/122455622330/i-guess-ive-got-some-letters-to-write-i-should

It had been a long day, but finally the sun was setting. The slavers Fenris had been tracking remained fortified, closed in a ruined fortress that nevertheless wasn’t quite ruined enough to allow him to infiltrate the cells where they kept their captured elves. He couldn’t risk an attack until they moved on toward the shore, where they would prove an easier target without walls to protect them. But he had gotten close enough to hear them laughing about their plans for the young red-haired girl. It had been enough to make his blood boil.

They spoke of the same girl that had caught Fenris’ gaze immediately when he came within eyeshot, though not, admittedly, on any merits of her own. It was because her bright, tangled locks fell down her back exactly as Miranda Hawke’s did. Not when Hawke was traveling, of course; whenever combat might be required, she would sweep the wavy mess up into a bun. But when they were alone, when they had lived in Kirkwall or when they had found a safe place to stay while drawing attention away from the others, Miranda would remove the tie and pins and it would cascade down her back like holy fire.

He remembered the last time he had seen her like that—her pale skin still glowing from the heat of their passion so recently spent, her blue eyes dancing, wicked and bright, as she looked over her bare shoulder at him. He had growled and pulled her back to him, flipped her onto the bed they had less-than-honestly acquired for the night, and ravished the spot just under her jaw that always rewarded him with such delicious moans he took fierce pride in knowing no other was allowed to hear.

A long sigh passed his lips as he let his thoughts linger upon her. He had marked her throat thoroughly before he would agree to let her to leave without him, a compromise she had laughed about at first but that had allowed him an entire night to commit to memory every curve of her flesh, every speck of gray in her blue eyes, every enticing sound he could draw from her with his tongue and teeth and touch, to last him through the long weeks until she could return to him.

It frightened Fenris more than he would admit to know Hawke was so far away, so beyond his help if something went wrong. He trusted Varric, but not the Inquisition. They were founded by the remnants of Divine Justinia’s followers, he reasoned, and the Chantry would not rest until Miranda Hawke was dead or tranquil for the part she had played in the mage rebellion. He would not allow either. She was _his_ , the last light of good in a corrupt and crumbling world, and for some reason he had never fully understood, she loved him just as completely. Even when he insisted on doing insane things like trying to hunt down every Tevinter slaver near the mouth of the Waking Sea.

The caw of a raven broke into his thoughts and Fenris looked up to see the bird circling overhead as he neared the ruined arch where he had set up his small camp. It carried a letter, and the corners of his lips twitched in an almost-smile. Miranda had ‘borrowed’ Inquisition ravens twice before, once to let him know she had reached Skyhold safely and no one had tried to put her to a lyrium brand, and again to pre-empt any word that might reach him about a sect of Grey Wardens seduced by Tevinter magisters into blood magic. That last one hadn’t exactly been comforting but for her assurances that she hadn’t been harmed and that the Inquisitor planned to stop it. It would be a relief to read it was over and she was safe again. Perhaps she would even say she was finally able to return.

The almost-smile died on his lips when he took the letter and the handwriting was not hers.

Fenris’ heart pounded in his ears, flooding his veins with ice that burned colder than the lyrium etched into his skin. It wasn’t Hawke's handwriting, not the familiar rounded letters that had taught him to read, but he _did_ recognize it, and it took him a moment to place the reason. It was Varric’s, he realized at once—and it was addressed to him by name.

Varric would not be writing him if Miranda could.

Varric would not pass up the opportunity to call him ‘Broody’ unless something was _very_ wrong.

He broke the seal with trembling fingers and read.

_Fenris,_

_I’ve tried to start this letter three separate times and I don’t know a way to ease you into this. Please just sit down and put away anything sharp._

His heart burned, rising higher in his chest than it should have been, and he didn’t dare to breathe. Something had happened. She was—she was hurt, that was all. Varric had warned him against anything sharp so he wouldn’t be able to lash out in anger at getting the news. Forcing himself to swallow past the lump in his throat, Fenris read on.

_We fell into a rift at the Warden fortress, fell physically into the Fade. Hawke, the Inquisitor, me and a few others. We had to fight our way past a mile of everyone’s greatest fears to find a way out, and in the end, this Nightmare—this thing so evil I can’t begin to describe it—blocked the way. It was corrupted by Corypheus, or maybe just working with him, damned if any of us know for sure. But you know how Hawke is with Corypheus. She thinks this is all her fault for not killing him properly the first time. She stayed behind to fight it, to give the Inquisitor time to escape and seal the rift back._

Fenris could feel his breaths turning fast and shallow, but he couldn’t stop them. Hawke had— _Miranda had_ —

_We don’t know if she’s still there or if she can come back. She’s a mage, but people aren't supposed to be in the Fade. If there is a way back, we both know Hawke will find it. And if there isn’t, I don't know, but she chose it, Fenris. Maybe she wanted to go out swinging._

The words blurred on the page. At first, he thought he was hyperventilating. Then he felt a tear slip down one cheek and half of his vision cleared.

_You should know I saw Hawke’s greatest fear carved in stone in the Fade. It was you dying, trying to protect her. She did all of this for you. Don’t do anything that would make that come true for her, or I will personally find you and kick your ass._

Tears blotched the last paragraph, and in his torment, Fenris didn’t even realize some of them were already dry.

_When you’re ready to talk, send the bird back. She’s my best friend, Fenris. Whatever you need to say or shout or throw at me, I’ll understand._

_-Varric_

His hands shook so badly he nearly ripped the papers in half. For a moment, he could only stare at the words, try to force some meaning out of them besides the obvious, because that version he had just read couldn’t be real. _It couldn’t_. He would not allow it.

Suddenly his greatsword was in his hands, though he didn’t remember drawing it. The letter scattered at his feet and in the absence of the damned dwarf that had written it, Fenris struck out at the raven with a guttural cry of rage and agony. It was too fast for him, flying out of range but refusing to retreat. Probably trained too well to leave without a return message. But he didn’t care, and he kept swinging more and more wildly until the blade struck in the ground and dug in.

He pulled on the hilt, but his heart wasn’t in it. His heart, he suddenly realized, was shattered into throbbing pieces all around him. Desperately, he turned back to the letter from Varric—there had to be something he had missed—an “I got you! She’ll be back to your broody ass soon”—something, even though Varric would not be that cruel—something—anything. But as Fenris sank to his knees, his hands refused to reach for the scattered papers. Instead one clapped over his mouth, struggling to hold in the agonized sobs he couldn’t control, and the other wrapped around his ribs, trying to hold himself together because he was certain the words had literally begun to rip him apart.

Neither helped. The tears kept coming, accompanied by violent spasms in his chest and tortured sounds he had not uttered since he was a slave. No, worse than when he was a slave. At least then, he had only known the cruelty of a magister’s hand. Now, he had known gentleness and kindness, warmth and fulfillment, protection and love—and it had all been ripped away from him so harshly that he longed for the pain of the lyrium being seared into his flesh, because even that had not hurt as much as this.

This was absolute, all-encompassing, heart-rending, soul-crushing, world-breaking agony.

And it was never going to be over.


End file.
